


Each Moment Without You

by helianskies



Series: Our Moments [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: And he will not be stopped, Cold War, Friendship, Gen, Historical References, Loyalty, Spain is one patient boi, Strong Bonds, negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26715829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helianskies/pseuds/helianskies
Summary: It's 1955. Antonio hasn't heard from Gilbert for a very long time, and he's getting worried about his old friend. So naturally, he'll do anything he can for anyone he has to in order to see him again. And most importantly: he'll wait as long as he has to to have his way.
Relationships: Prussia & Spain (Hetalia)
Series: Our Moments [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944058
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	Each Moment Without You

"I'll ask you one last time, Francis, and I need you to be honest with me: do you know how he's doing?"

A faint, exasperated sigh left the Frenchman and he slowly shook his head. "No, I don't," he replied. "I don't think anyone does other than those living over there with him. And Ivan, of course." He paused and eyed Antonio, who only stared at the table between them as though studying the pattern of the grain on the wood. "Why do you care so much anyway?"

Antonio's gaze snapped up at the blonde. "Why do you care so _little_? Are you not even curious as to how things are over there?"

"My curiosity is not worth a fight with a world superpower; I'm not getting involved in whatever is going on between Russia and America," Francis remarked, his tone tired and droning as though he had already said this a thousand times before. Maybe he had. "If I asked, who knows what would happen?"

"So you're happy to just let one of your oldest friends suffer? At the hands of someone you once called an ally?"

"Russia didn't _invade_ me."

" _Gilbert_ didn't, either," the brunette reminded him sternly.

Gilbert had wanted the war just as much as the rest of them. He had been with him, Antonio had seen him fight, and slowly crumble apart as the Soviets had marched westward towards Berlin. He had done all he could to help him, before he had been sent back to Madrid, and ever since then the guilt had festered and rotted inside of him. _I left him to the dogs_. Now it was 1955 and had heard nothing from Gilbert since a single letter he had received in 1947. Not a word. Not a peep. Not even a whisper passed on by a friend more present in Germany than Antonio was…

"Don't lecture me on my allies past and present, Antonio. You are no better," Francis said. "Look what your own allies did to you. Look at who you've become, what your country has become…"

_Now that is low. And unfair._

"They did me a favour," the Spaniard defended. He was trying to hold back the fierce fire that would have seen him throwing the table up towards his friend. "We prosper, we thrive. And besides," he added, "they only became my allies because the people who I _thought_ would help me only _failed_ me instead."

Francis bit his tongue for a moment. He seemed to be carefully selecting his words. "That was not my fault."

"Right? Just like 1940 wasn't _Gilbert's_ fault?"

"Enough of this, you're being antagonistic," the blonde huffed, dismissing the other with the flick of his hand. "If you have nothing else to discuss, then I think it's best you go—"

"I want to see him."

It took the Frenchman by surprise. Maybe shock. Maybe horror. He looked to Antonio and met his steeled gaze, his determination and stubbornness, and he sighed once more. _Resigned_. In a way, it was like the parent of a troublesome kid, who had become so complacent to the bad behaviour, that they no longer had the energy to fight it. Francis knew that Antonio would not be bested or repelled. When the Spaniard wanted something, it wasn't often that he didn't eventually get it.

"You're asking the wrong person," he said. "I cannot help you."

"Then talk to the person who can."

"It's not that simple—"

"If you actually cared about him, you wouldn't be hesitating—!"

"I _do_ care!" Francis snapped. He seemed alarmed at his own voice and how loud he had been, but he rode it out. "I do care about him," he repeated, "just like I care for you."

"So _help me_ , Francis," Antonio responded, imploring him, begging him. He’d get on his knees if he had to. "I have to know. Not because we were allies in the war, but because he's my _friend_."

Another silence befell them. Antonio waited desperately for some sort of answer, a response, a clue as to what the other was thinking, but he had found that in the last twenty years Francis had become such a hard person to read. People thought him clueless—ignorance was easily feigned—but when it came to those closest to him, he knew them as well as he knew himself. Or so he did, once upon a time.

Francis swallowed down the small lump in his throat. "I'll speak to Alfred. You two are getting friendlier, I'm sure he could help you in some way if I put in a good word.”

"Thank you. I don't need long with him," Antonio assured the other, perhaps to take some weight out of the atmosphere. "I don't even have to talk to him. I just have to see him."

"I know," Francis said. "I will… try. I will try, for both of you.”

* * *

Six months passed since their chat before it seemed any progress had been made. Francis had indeed spoken to Alfred, who had in turn spoken to Antonio, who had in turn expressed his fears. Now it was 1956.

"Who knows what's happening to them all over there?" the brunette lamented. "I know they are nations, but after the dissolution especially, I am extremely concerned about _him_ in particular."

"I get that, don't worry," Alfred had reassured him with a steady nod, sat across from the other, a(n uncharacteristic) drink in hand. "Knowing those damned communists, it can't be anything good. I understand why you're worried…"

"So what can we do?" Antonio had then asked. "I want to see him, I want to know he's okay, but I don't trust a single word that comes out of Ivan's mouth." Words like: _I can help you_ , and, _I'll be by your side_. Changing loyalties had evidently been the smartest decision Antonio had made back in 1937. "I need to see Gilbert _in person_."

"You know that's gonna be _really hard_ to arrange, right? Ivan's not an easy man to bargain with."

"I know. But even _you_ should know that that won't stop me from trying."

Alfred had taken a moment to drink, think and breathe out through his nose. It was almost tense, sitting in his presence. Antonio had been briefly reminded of a time when his own presence had silenced rooms, stolen the attention of those around him, unnerved anyone who was not a loyal Spaniard. He missed it. He missed the respect. He missed how easy it had been to get things done, _when_ he wanted, _how_ he wanted.

How ironic to be sat in the presence of the person who had taken all of that from him indefinitely.

"I'll do whatever I have to," Antonio went on before the quietness became too irritating, too troublesome. "Personally, politically—I don't care."

"You do realise you're one of the last people Ivan is gonna trust though, right? He's not a big fan of your… _government_."

_Who is?_

"If he dislikes them so much, then perhaps he should have fought against them harder in the 1930s," the Spaniard responded lowly, quietly. The grudge he held could be big and small at the same time when it came to everyone's favourite Russian. He’d never had a chance to have it out with him. "But then, I suppose that would have made me much less popular with you, no? I can't have it both ways, Alfred. We have to pick a side in these things, and in this cold war, I know perfectly where I stand."

The American nodded along slowly—whether in agreement, or because he was impressed, Antonio couldn't be sure. Alfred, like Francis, was not an easy person to understand at the moment. He recalled a time when he had been no higher than his knee, whereas now, Alfred stood over him. As a child he'd been sweet, open, bright. As an adult, it was clear Life had had her way with him, just as she had with the rest of them. Now he was more reserved and careful about what he said to who and when, and he chose his allies with even more consideration.

What a relief—Antonio believed he had finally made the cut. 

The blonde ceased and gave a smile. "I'll see what I can do for you. I can't promise anything, 'course, but that's just the nature of these things."

"Of course, I understand," Antonio nodded. He was feeling somewhat more hopeful. He had the support of one of the Big Wigs, now. "If there is anything I can do in return—and I do mean anything—then let me know. This means a lot to me."

"I know, I can see that," the other responded. "I'll have a little think and get back to you, okay? But for now—" He extended out a hand to Antonio, who took it for a handshake. "Pleasure doing business with you, Spain."

He mustered up a modest grin. "And with you, America."

* * *

It was 1961. Antonio was yet to see Gilbert. Five years prior, when he had been talking to Alfred, he had been hopeful. Now he felt more hopeless than ever, and all because of a single thing: the Berlin Wall. No one had seen it coming. Overnight, construction had begun, and in the same night, Antonio's chances of seeing his friend had been reduced to virtually none. 

He had felt this immense panic. What was happening to the world? What was happening to the people he knew—to the nations he had once seen as Good? Gilbert had been caught in the crossfire. For fifteen years nearly, Antonio had waited for a message, a chance to see him… 

"I'll wait another fifteen if I have to," he said.

Arthur, his choice company for the afternoon, had no immediate reaction. But then, persistence was not such an unbelievable thing when it came to the Spaniard. Arthur had known him at his prime.

"At this rate, you might just have to. This entire war is a mess, I wish the pair of them would grow the hell up already and sort themselves out," the Brit remarked in turn. " _However_ , they're both too stubborn, and far too proud. It's fucking ridiculous, is what it is."

A smile almost cracked onto Antonio's face; instead, what lay there was a half-smile, easy, relaxed. "Who does that remind you of, hm? Stubborn and proud?"

"We were _both_ like that, back then."

"Oh, I know. I'm not denying it," the brunette assured him with a quiet laugh, "but even so, it's quite funny. The power really does go to the head, doesn't it?"

The other hummed. "Unfortunately."

"Do you ever miss those days? Those years? I mean, things were easier back then, in my own opinion," Antonio mused, while Arthur seemed to listen attentively as he simultaneously saw to his cup of tea. "Less bureaucracy, less propaganda, less _fuss_ trying to get what we wanted…"

"I know what you mean. Four-hundred years ago, life was like a breeze," the blonde agreed as he reminisced. "It's a shame, but the world has changed. We have cars, we have planes, we have technology we couldn't even have _imagined_ back then. I suppose there was always going to be a price to pay."

"And what a shame the price was simplicity."

Now it was Arthur who seemed to smile. "You really miss it that much?"

"Off the record?"

"Of course. Always."

"How could I not?" Antonio asked him. "Back then, it was _my_ way. The monarchs cared that I was Spain, that I was their country. My politicians haven’t the same respect. I mean, if it were the sixteenth century, I wouldn't have to wait fifteen years or more to see a friend, to start with."

"You really do want to see him, don’t you?"

"No one knows what he was like, during the war. No one but me, who saw it for myself. And if that was what he was like back then, I dread to think how he is doing now."

"That's why you're here, then," Arthur said, looking up from his cup at the brunette. Antonio had never quite gotten used to the way the other looked at him, even after so many centuries. "You want my help."

Antonio gave a slow, reluctant nod. "I want to see him. I'm not sure who else could help me get that. You're a good mediator between the pair of them, as stubborn and proud as they are; they listen to you."

"Well, only to an extent."

"All I'm asking is that you try. For _me_ ," he said. _For me_. How many times in the past had he asked Arthur to do something for him like this? "I know you'd do the same if you were in my position, and you hadn’t heard from Francis—or even _about_ Francis. You'd do whatever it took."

"And is that what you're offering in return? Whatever it takes?"

"Whatever it takes."

Arthur took a moment to think about it. Whether he was truly mulling the idea over, or just taking his time to build up the suspense, it couldn't be said. Antonio didn't entirely care. He meant it— _whatever it takes_. However long it takes. Gilbert was worth it, he was worth whatever price was out forward, just so that Antonio could see him. So that he could be sure. So that he knew, without any doubt, he was alive and well and safe.

And then, at last: "I think we can come to an arrangement."

Antonio hadn't seen Arthur smile at him like that for centuries.

* * *

The arrangement had been somewhat fun and unexpected, Antonio would not deny it. But now it was 1975. Francis, Alfred and Arthur had all been unable to help him in the end, and that really only left one person that Antonio could turn to: the man himself, the big Russian bear.

1975 was a big year for the Cold War. It was August now, and relations between East and West seemed to be alarmingly good, especially following the success of the Apollo-Soyuz project. So there was no better time to go and speak to Ivan himself, to demand an audience so he could look him in the eye and say the same words he'd said to everyone else:

"I want to see him."

"As I have been made aware on several occasions," Ivan responded. There was a small smile on his face, and Antonio could tell he was enjoying himself; he had been like that once. Cold, cruel, cunning. "You really are quite the friend to him."

"I've been alive long enough to know that when you find someone who can look past your flaws, your mistakes and your fears, you should do everything you can to hold onto them," Antonio explained to him. "Gilbert has been a friend to me for much longer than most. I don't want him to think I've turned my back on him."

"Have you not done so already?"

"If he thinks that, it's only because he's been told so."

"Ah, so now you are accusing me."

"You've had twenty years since my first request to let me see him," Antonio responded, cutting to the chase. He was tired of playing games with these people. "The only thing I'll accuse you of is being inconsiderate for denying me my friend. And for denying him, as well."

"I think you will find Gilbert has taken to the Soviet life, he has not been as unhappy as all you Westerners think."

"Then I'm glad to hear it—but that's not the point I'm emphasising. Gilbert is one of my closest friends, and I am his. All I want is to see him. Because for twenty-eight years, I've only been able to _guess_ how he is, and that sort of time makes a person worry."

Ivan did not reply immediately. He looked the other up and down, and slowly released his breath. "I am quite glad I never had any great dealings with you when you were an Empire," he remarked. Antonio was bewildered. "You have fire. On the battlefield, I imagine it served you very well."

"It's called passion."

"Mmh, and you clearly have lots of it," he observed. "So tell me, Spain, why should I trust you to see him?"

That was a very good question. Trust was hard to come by for people like them. And he and Ivan—Spain and the USSR—were so different, politically, ideologically, culturally… But why should any of that matter? This wasn't about politics or religion or history, it was about basic human decency and friendship. Antonio had spent too many years waiting and begging to give up. He wasn't going to bottle it now.

So he said: "You don't _have_ to trust me. You're more than welcome to stand in the same room while I see him." Ivan raised a brow at the notion, perhaps sceptical. "I'm not here to undermine anyone. I don't care for politics—my own leader is slowly dying, and what happens once he's gone is yet to be determined. I don’t have a preference either way. All I'm asking is that you do me this one kindness, and let me see my friend before he's completely lost to me."

"That wasn't very—"

"But you understand, don't you? How important having friends is?" Antonio pressed, cutting the other off without a second thought. "I don't have many people in my life, Ivan, believe it or not. That's why I fight for who I _do_ have."

What that stirred up in the other, he couldn’t tell, but he hoped it was powerful. He hoped it was enough. Ivan was someone he felt could appreciate that sort of sentiment—of having to hold onto what you had before you were no longer able to—and he wanted him to see. He wanted him to understand. There was simply too much at stake.

So the Russian eventually spoke up: “You are quite the fighter.”

“So are you.”

“I might be able to arrange something.”

“You’re the only one who can.”

“And yet you tried other avenues first.”

“This is the first time we’ve spoken since 1937, if you don't include that moment in World War Two,” Antonio responded, doing his best to bite back much harsher comments festering inside, “so I’m sorry for not coming straight to your front door.”

Ivan seemed bemused. “You are still upset about that?”

“Maybe I was, once. That time has long passed us.” The Spaniard gave a sigh and turned away his gaze from the other, growing tired of the back and forth. For a moment it had seemed simple. “Tell me what you want from me in return. I’ll do what I can for you. But I would like to see Gilbert, and I would like to do so soon.”

Ivan gave a mute hum, a pause, and then a wide grin. “Very well. I will be in contact soon, and we will… _fix_ this situation.”

Thank God. At last.

* * *

1976\. What a year. Some thirty years had passed by, and now, at last, with two world superpowers waiting to watch from afar (just in case) Antonio had finally come to the day he would see his best friend. 

Questions had been whizzing around in his mind all morning, ever since Alfred had met him at the airport in West Berlin—questions like: _will he be the same as I remember him? Will he be smiling? Will he be in one piece?_ Antonio had watched the news from both halves of Germany close enough to know things were starkly different, that people were dying, that the war was no less cold even if the USA and USSR were in the midst of _détente_. _Will he be okay?_

The walk through the streets with Alfred had been quiet. West Berlin seemed to be doing well for itself. He would have stopped by to see Ludwig, but the man was busy, and he wasn’t the German he was so intent on seeing. _Has Ludwig heard much from Gilbert?_ He’d be surprised if not. But then, he’d be surprised that Ludwig had never passed on any news he’d received.

Either way, it was pleasant all the way until they walked towards that God-forsaken wall and he had to stand in its shadow, waiting as Alfred got them past the checkpoint. When they were cleared as diplomats on business, he kept his head down and resisted a temptation to look back at it. He was through. He was so, so much closer now. 

“This has been a long time coming, huh?” Alfred remarked as they walked. Even though this was supposedly only his fourth time on this side of the wall, he had little problem leading them both to wherever it was they were headed.

Antonio gave a solemn nod. “A very long time, but the wait will be worth it.”

“You have an abnormal amount of patience, you know,” the American remarked. He was at least doing his best to keep things light. “How do you do it?”

“Stay married to the same person for nearly two-hundred years,” he responded with a smile. “It does wonders for the personality.”

“Must’ve been lucky.”

“Who, Roderich? He’d beg to differ.”

“Still, I think you’re a pretty remarkable person,” Alfred assured him. “I know this whole process hasn’t been easy, but the fact that you’ve stuck to your guns like this—Gilbert’s lucky to have you as a friend.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Thank you, I guess. You, uh—” He glanced at Alfred as they turned a corner and passed a small group of East-Germans leaving a small market. “You’ve been good to me too, though, even if this has been hard. You managed to organise all of this for me. For that, I would consider you a friend of mine."

"Well," came the content reply, "I think I'd call that a very fair trade."

They smiled together and Alfred directed them both to what looked to be no different than an ordinary block of apartments. Is this where Gilbert lived? It wasn't too extravagant, nor too modest, but whether or not it screamed 'Gilbert' was an entirely different matter.

Even so, up they went. Alfred walked them up to the fifth floor—the top floor—and then to one of the doors. He knocked three times. Antonio felt a strange anxiety swelling in his chest, climbing up his throat, and it wasn’t made much better when it was Ivan who answered and opened the door to them. He greeted his guests with the usual easy smile and invited them inside without a word. 

For a moment, Antonio entertained the thought that they were going to murder him, and that no one would ever know.

There would have been worse ways to go.

Yet, when he walked into the apartment with Alfred following close behind, it soon became clear that this really was what he had hoped it would be. His thirty years of patience had really, truly, _finally_ paid off.

“Alfred and I will be in here,” Ivan explained as the three of them stood in their triangle in the middle of the main room of the apartment. He gestured to the sofa and invited Alfred to sit down (he decided to wait, it seemed) and then looked to Antonio and the door behind him. “He’s through there. I think you’ll find he is just as nervous.”

“Thanks for calling me out on it,” Antonio replied with a meek, sheepish smile, but he was grateful. He was grateful that Ivan and Alfred actually… let this happen. Finally. So he said: “Thank you for this, though,” with as much sincerity as he could. "I appreciate it."

And then there was no more time to waste. He glanced between the two superpowers (because _that_ wasn’t intimidating at all) before he turned and walked to those doors—towards the thing he had waited so long for—and he entered the room with that anxiety still clinging to his lungs. The doors closed behind him. He looked around for Gilbert. He couldn’t see him right away but when the other did fall into view, where he stood by an open window and let the breeze hit his face, Antonio could have cried. 

He hadn’t expected to get emotional. He hadn’t expected that this would be such a hard step to take.

Swallowing down his anxiety as much as he could, Antonio walked towards Gilbert to try and grab his attention without having to call out for it, but he got no immediate response. For a moment, he was worried. Was Gilbert alright? Or was he there, but not really there? Lovino had said that once about Antonio to his face ( _it’s like you’re here, but you’re not at the same time. It’s freaking me the fuck out!_ ) and it was mortifying.

“I really wasn’t expecting it to happen like this.”

Antonio stopped at Gilbert’s side and looked at him. The words hit in an odd way.

“What did you expect instead?” he asked the other. He couldn’t believe this conversation was happening. That it was real. That _Gilbert_ was real. “Sorry I didn’t think to get a fanfare, or to bring over some drinks. Kinda hard to get it all over the border.”

A splutter of a laugh escaped the Prussian and he shook his head, perhaps in disdain at the poor comedy, before he looked to Antonio and met his gaze. 

It really was him. It was Gilbert. And Gilbert was smiling, he looked good, he looked… much better than Antonio had expected, in all honesty. Perhaps Ivan had been right. Perhaps he wasn’t doing as bad as everyone thought…

“It’s good to see you, Toni.”

“It’s even better to see you,” Antonio replied. “It’s amazing, actually.”

“You… look like you need a hug.”

“Maybe I do. I mean, I wouldn't _object_ to one…”

“Okay, a hug it is. Come here—”

Antonio, true to his word, wasn’t going to say no. It had been too long. Far, far too long. So they hugged. They just hugged. It was that overly friendly sort of hug, all tight and close, and just what you’d imagine it to be like when they hadn’t seen each other for… Well, Antonio was tired now of thinking how long had passed. This was now. This was the present. And he was so glad for it.

“Hey, Toni…?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry I never wrote to you.”

“It’s fine.”

“And I’m sorry you’ve been worried about me.”

“It’s fine.”

“And I’m sorry that this had to take so long to sort out—”

“Gilbert, shut up please.”

They pulled apart and Antonio tried not to give him too stern a look, but he didn’t like the apologies. Gilbert had no need to apologise. 

“None of that matters,” he explained to him; “it doesn’t matter that I didn’t get any letters, or that I had to wait. What matters is that you’re still here—that you’re here _now_ —and that I have had this chance to see you. That’s all I care about. All I ever wanted was to see you and know that you are okay.”

“But you shouldn’t have had to wait thirty years for it.”

Antonio smiled at him and shrugged—dismissed the thought and ignored it. “I would have waited a century. You’re one of my closest friends—I was never going to give up,” he said. “I’d sooner see my country collapse.”

Gilbert smiled back and returned his gaze to the world beyond the window. “Funny. Isn’t that what’s happening?” he questioned. “At least, from what I gathered, things are a bit messy at the minute for you. Are _you_ doing alright?”

“Things are messy everywhere. It’s a process, I’m taking it all step by step. So long as my people don’t suffer, then the path they choose can’t be wrong,” the Spaniard replied, and he looked out of the window with the other. “But let’s not talk politics. That’s _far_ too boring.”

“Roger that! Hey, do you remember that time you and I skipped out on a meeting in the 1920s to go and get drunk instead because we were so fed up with everyone’s arguing?”

“When _aren’t_ we fed up with everyone’s arguing?” Antonio remarked with a soft laugh, a light chuckle. “Really, I think that’s what meetings should strictly be: drinking. Think how much easier it would all be!”

“Yeah, and think of the carnage! Can you _imagine_ the blackmail material we’d get!”

“Oh my God, I didn’t even think of that!”

“How could you _not_? I’d give anything to get some dirt on Roderich—”

“Roderich!”

They’d said the name at the same time. Their laughter was only a natural response.

"You're joking, what did the guy ever do to you?" Gilbert asked, even nudging the brunette in that usual, jokey, playful way.

Antonio could only scoff. "Where would you like me to _begin_?"

And what was even greater was that conversation continued to flow, they continued to laugh and talk, and for a moment Antonio was taken back to several points in their histories. It was normal. It was like any ordinary day. The thought that the two biggest world superpowers were lingering just a room away was quickly dissolved by the overriding joy they found in each other’s company. For Antonio and Gilbert, it could have been any afternoon on any given day in any given year. It wasn’t as though one of them had just entered democratic transition following dictatorship, or that the other was living as an occupied territory cut off from most of the Western world. It was just an ordinary afternoon.

How long they’d have together, Antonio didn’t know. He didn’t know what time he’d have with him after this day either. But the better relations between Alfred and Ivan led them both to believe that Gilbert would be less inclined to isolate himself, that he _could_ send Antonio letters, that he could keep him up to date—Gilbert promised him as much.

“Things are finally looking up. I’m hopeful,” he said as an afterthought. “I won’t leave you waiting anymore if I can help it.”

“That’s good. I’m glad,” the other returned, “but you don’t need to worry too much. There’s no pressure. It’s just nice to see you, and to see you smiling, most importantly.”

“I’m only smiling because I got to see you today,” Gilbert assured him, and even though he said it so nonchalantly, smiling all the while, Antonio would hold onto those words. Did he not normally smile? “Next time, we arrange this properly. We’ll get some beer, have some food, and just chill out. Sound like a plan?”

But even if he didn’t normally smile, even if he wasn’t happy on a daily basis (who was, in truth?) Gilbert seemed to be himself in that moment. He seemed to be his chipper, cheerful self. So rather than dampening the mood and ruining the wonderful opportunity they both had, Antonio nodded and smiled.

“I’d really, actually love that.”

* * *

Antonio only saw Gilbert two more times before 1979. _Détente_ collapsed that Christmas, the Cold War resumed, and he could only watch from his cosy, warm peninsula as his friend vanished again into the foggy mess that his home had come to represent. It was a great shame. They’d had their beer, they’d had their food, and they’d had their laughs while it had been possible. But nothing ever lasted forever, did it?

Now that the 1980s had begun, and Antonio was ready. He was ready to wait. He would _always_ be ready to wait.

**Author's Note:**

> The prequel no one asked for! jk, but if you haven't read 'Each Moment With You' and you like/are open to Prussia/Spain then ;)
> 
> Ah, but this was fun to write. For those curious about historical references included, here ya go:
> 
> [Francis & Antonio]  
> ✎ Antonio references the Allied Powers - more specifically the cooperation between Russia and France - and the German occupation of France in 1940.  
> ✎ A recurring theme is Antonio being with Gilbert during WWII - this is in reference to the Spanish unit (the Blue Division) that supported the German army on the Eastern Front between 1941 and 1944.  
> ✎ 1947 - the year the Cold War is widely viewed as having 'started'; same year as the abolition of Prussia.  
> ✎ Francis points out that Antonio makes poor choices in allies as well - this is in reference to the Spanish Civil War, in which Germany and Italy (amongst others) supported the Nationalist Front that won the war, leading to the Francoist dictatorship in Spain. Antonio's retaliation refers to France agreeing to Non-Intervention in the war in spite of pleas from the Second Spanish Republic (the other side in the war effort, supported by the USSR).  
> ✎ Speaking to Alfred - this would be wise as Spain and the US had improving relations after WW2 (you know, with the whole anti-communist thing they both had going on).
> 
> [Alfred & Antonio]  
> ✎ Antonio's change of loyalty in 1937 is a personal headcanon for the sake of this work - the idea is that Antonio started fighting for the Republicans alongside the (Communist/Soviet) International Brigades, before switching sides.  
> ✎ 'the person who had taken all of that from him indefinitely' - the result of the Spanish-American War in 1898 was the collapse of the Spanish Empire. So I imagine that Antonio would be quick to blame Alfred for that.  
> ✎ Again, Antonio references the Spanish Civil War and Russian involvement. The grudge is about feeling let down and betrayed by the communists, largely organised by the USSR, that then suddenly withdrew in 1938, effectively sealing the outcome of the war a few months later.
> 
> [Arthur & Antonio]  
> ✎ Berlin Wall was erected in August 1961, construction beginning in the middle of the night.  
> ✎ The 'back then' naturally refers to the 15/16/17 centuries, when Britain and Spain were massive powers, and certainly seeing many ups and down in their relations.  
> ✎ Britain and Spain were united by the marriage of Hnery VIII and Catherine of Aragon, hence I imagine Arthur and Antonio also had their own marriage of sorts - hence, 'Antonio hadn't seen Arthur smile at him like that for centuries'. You don't need telling what the 'arrangement' was, I'm sure ;)
> 
> [Ivan & Antonio]  
> ✎ July 1975 - success of the Apollo-Soyuz space project between the US and USSR. The peak of détente, or the 'relaxing of political tensions' in the 1970s.  
> ✎ Spain's leader dying - Franco passed away in November 1975 after some health problems, including peritonitis.  
> ✎ Again, the grudge regarding the Spanish Civil War makes an appearance. Antonio and Ivan speaking during WW2 also again refers to the Spaniards fighting on the Eastern Front.
> 
> [Gilbert & Antonio]  
> ✎ Two-hundred year marriage references the Habsburg rule in Spain, through which Antonio and Roderich are commonly depicted as having been married.  
> ✎ The 'mess' in Spain is the beginning of the democratic transition - something that took until 1983 to complete, and it was indeed very messy...
> 
> [Final Scene]  
> ✎ 25th December 1979 - Soviet Invasion of Afghanistan. Commonly agreed to be the event that restarts the Cold War and ends the period of détente.


End file.
